The Curse of Shalott
by Irishlass18
Summary: She weaves by night and day but they say not how she came to be,the Lady of Shalott.As she weaves the tales of knights bold and maidens fair,she longs for a tale and knight of her own.Then unexpectedly,one by one,they come to her isle and her heart is torn.She entreats them to alter their fates but will they listen?Will she continue to weave alone,with love out of reach?Multiple/OC
1. The Coming of Shalott

Death was coming for her. She felt his presence slithering up her body just as surely as she felt the warmth of her blood pool around her. Breathing was harder now; the air was thick as water and her chest felt like it was slowly caving in on itself. She'd lost all feeling in her legs almost as soon as the wound had been inflicted and, though she knew they were still attached, the frozen limbs refused to respond to her pleas for movement. Her hands were pressed over the wound, useless in their attempts to stem the flow of blood. Too much damage had been caused for there to be any hope. It had happened so suddenly, much too quickly to really understand how she came to be lying here.

Cold. She felt so very cold. If anyone were to ask her what she'd thought about during her last moments on earth she'd tell them ice. The only image in her head was of ice, not her family, not her home, not the things she'd done or wished she could've done. Cold, grey ice and nothing more. Was it fair that she was lying here in the prime of her life; dying as she pondered the life cycle of ice? Perhaps not, but then again what was fair? She'd certainly never understood the concept. There was justice, there was mercy, there was no fair.

_"Justice…"_ Death whispered in her ear, the silken voice wrapping around her like a welcoming cloak. She wanted to close her eyes and give in to the seductive idea of surrender. _"Mercy…" _He coiled around her, seeping deep into the marrow of her bones. _"Do you truly know what justice means, or mercy?"_ Death was toying with her, drawing out her last moments. She welcomed it, anything to stay this side of the River Styx. _"Could you demand justice and mercy without flinching? Could you be fair?" _The words were thrown at her like a challenge and she wished for the strength to respond with more than a gasp.

_"What are you doing?" _Another voice joined Death. This voice was deeper, like the rumbling of thunder on a summer afternoon. _"Let her be. She is not long of this world." _She felt a jolt of awareness shiver through her body, her legs temporarily responding to the stimulation by jerking to the side.

Death spoke again, _"All the more reason to employ her. She passed all the other tests."_

_"And failed the last one. Why should we employ a failure to attempt to rescue another possible failure?"_ The rumbling increased and she became aware of the ground around her shaking from the sound of it.

_"Because only a failure can recognize another's weaknesses and avoid them." _Death responded, her body again jerking as if in agreement.

The rumbling suddenly increased, as did the vibrations, until the room around her split open and light from the heavens showered down on her. Angels did not sing, as she'd often thought they would when she ascended on high, but then again she was not ascending. In fact, she was still lying in a pool of her own blood, wondering if the last moments before death were always rife with insanity.

_"Very well. But there must be stipulations."_ The rumbling ceased and the vibrations stopped.

Death uncoiled from around her, welcome air flowing freely into her lungs, _"Understood."_

Lightning shot from the sky and engulfed her body, tearing her apart just as it knit her back together. When the pain abated she found that she could move and breathe again. Her arms and legs responded as before and her wound was gone. As she continued to study herself she noted that her clothes had altered to that of rich linen embroidered with fair gems, a style far from her usual taste. She rolled over and stood on wobbly feet. Her chestnut hair tumbled down over her shoulders and she noticed a white streak in it where there had been none before.

_"Come, Lady, and you will truly learn what justice and mercy are."_ She looked up to find the scene around her altered until she stood in the middle of a stone circle, a frail old man waiting for her in the mist.

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came. Before she could become more alarmed the man stepped forward, his hand held up in what she assumed was a reassuring gesture.

"You will communicate with your hands not your voice." He gestured towards her feet and she looked down to find a folded cloth. Picking it up, the cloth unfurling with her movements, she found that it was as intricately sewn hunt scene. "This is how you will communicate." She glared up at the man who only smiled in return. "You will trace the actions of those around you in this manner, keeping record of all the justice and mercy, or the lack." She clenched the cloth in her hand, wanting nothing more than to scream. "You may not leave this place," she looked past him to see a castle emerging from the mists, four flower covered turrets jutting into the sky, "though others may sojourn here. You must never look to the south directly. If you violate these stipulations, if you fail in your duty, you will return to where I found you. Is that understood?"

She glanced down at the cloth in her hand, taking note of the dress and weaponry of the knights on horseback. She looked up and around, being careful to close her eyes and quickly pass over what she assumed was the south. On either side of the wide river lay long fields of barley and of rye, and through the field a road slithered parallel to the river. From here she could hear the farmers singing as they worked and merchant carts as they rolled by. She could not directly see anyone from this distance, only the flickering of metal scythes in the sun.

An island, or better yet, a castle on an island of mist surrounded by farmland that is where she must live? Weaving the tales of those around her instead of living the tales herself, that is what she must do? She turned her gaze back to the slight man before her. There really was no argument to be had. She'd wanted to escape the River Styx and so she had. With renewed determination for living she nodded her head, earning a broad smile from the man in response.

"Come then, my lady, and let me show you Shalott." He opened his arms wide and she ventured closer, surprised when he took her elbow and leaned into her as they moved towards the castle.

As they walked through the white willows and quivering aspens, a light breeze having chased away the mist, she noted the layout of the land. There was land a plenty for a garden and a field for farming. There were birds and deer darting through the wood. She could do worse than live here, of that she was well aware.

On and on he went, talking about the rules of her life. He showed her all the castle and the things she must do to its upkeep. She did not mind that she'd be alone, as long as she was alive. They climbed high up in the north tower and he opened up the casement for her view. Inside lay her loom and all around it were bundles of varied colors, some somber and some gay, but all piled high up to the ceiling. It was here that she knew she'd do her weaving.

"Come, Lady, come and weave." The man gestured for her to sit. She sat and stared at the loom, unsure of how or where to begin. The man moved some of the bundles aside and sat down. "Weave your life, Lady, your life before you came here."

And so she began, and weaved by night and day, the magic web she was called to weave, until at last she was done and the man looked at her work with a critical eye. She knew not how much time had passed, only that the man had burned through at least a dozen candles and her hands were shaking from fatigue.

"It is a fair start." He rolled up the weave and tucked it into his tunic, just as neatly as he'd brought her here. "Now go and start your life on Shalott." He disappeared as he'd come, with mist and mystery, and she was left wondering, how does one start a life alone, on an island of mist?

Unbeknownst to her, on another island of mist, a young male child was born at the moment of her arrival. Through him the fate of Camelot could be damned or saved. Of course if he did not learn of his responsibility in the events that were to unfold, Lancelot would be doomed to repeat the mistakes those who had brought the Lady had sought to avoid.

* * *

_(Author's Note: Don't own it, obviously. I am mostly keeping to the ideas surrounding "Mists of Avalon" but I am including the notion of supernatural beasts and more magic use as there is in the TV series "Merlin." The characters in this story will more closely resemble in looks those from "Mists of Avalon" but in character they will reflect the movie and TV series as well as the historical deviations of Tennyson and Mallory.)_


	2. The Heart of a Stag

The ground beneath her suddenly dropped but she was ready. With agile movements, she compensated the abrupt change in terrain and slid down the steep leaf-strewn hill, her bow still steady in her hands. The stag continued to thunder through the brush across the stream, desperate in its attempts to flee her. She paused long enough at the bottom of the incline to note the direction of the stag and took off on a parallel course. This hunt, one that she took only once a season, was part of what kept her sane. The thrill of the chase reminded her of what life had been before the loom.

She had not bothered to count the days since she'd first come to be the Lady of Shallot but she knew how many webs she'd weaved. Twenty tapestries, each hanging from the great hall of her castle, had been completed since her arrival. Ornate depictions and full of interweaving stories, each had taken great time and many candles through the night. They were full of destruction and despair mostly, very little happiness or peace was to be found in the stories that passed by her isle.

Though time had obviously passed she noted that her appearance and health had remained the same. Not only was her loom enchanted, then, but she herself had become an enchanted being. The Merlin, as the old man called himself, had only visited a handful of times since her first arrival, once bringing with him a woman of regal countenance who called herself the Lady of the Lake. The Lady of the Lake did not seem to approve of her presence on Shalott but had apparently conceded to the plans of Merlin.

There was war upon the land from vicious outsiders but more than that there was upheaval among the ranks of those within the borders of the kingdom as well. Even as she weaved the tales that came to her in the night as dreams and visions, she longed to escape her isle and set things right. She alone could see the fatal mistake each made and more than once death could have been avoided had she been able to aid those in her weaves.

She rushed around an oak in front of her and leapt across a bend in the stream. She knew the stag would soon find itself cornered, the cliffs of the island at its front and right and her on its left. She had mere moments to close in on its position before the stag had opportunity to flee in the direction it had come. Her heart pounding in her chest and her lungs burning, she threw herself through the shrubbery until she was standing a few yards away from the cornered stag.

She quickly took aim, not naïve to think that the stag would not attempt to rush her—she'd learned that lesson two seasons before. Her aim was true and the stag fell to its knees then slumped over on its side, her arrow protruding from its eye socket. Quickly shouldering her bow she approached the animal and set about gutting it, knowing she only had moments to do so before the meat began to pickle itself in filth.

With no hesitation she removed the innards, setting aside the heart especially, and proceeded to slice through the major arteries of the animals before she started with the skinning and quartering. This was a process she'd had to learn through trial and error and while it was messy and smelly she found solace in following the steps. Perhaps she'd grown hard-hearted living here for so long alone, as she found a thrill and perverse pleasure in ending the life of an innocent animal.

Satisfied with her work thus far she laid aside her bow and knife and unsheathed her sword. The head would be mounted on her wall with the others. As she kept all her weapons in pristine condition—she'd found an armory in the castle and was thankful for the limited though varied supply that'd been there—it was quick business to separate head from body.

Uncoiling the rope that had been tied around her torso, she tied it around the antlers of the stag and quickly threw the other end over the branches above her. She'd retrieve it later. It was more vital that she take the meat back to the castle and place it in the smoker or salt for preservation first. With only a little awkwardness, did she wrap the desirable meat and lash the bags to her back. She gathered the innards and heart into a separate sack and headed back towards the castle.

She'd long since learned all the nooks and crannies of the island. She knew where every deer herd preferred to feed, where the streams emptied out into the river, where the birds nested, and where the scattered rocks gave way to cliffs and then the river. She'd made this isolated island her home in every way she knew how. She had a garden of herbs and vegetables; she'd cultivated an orchard of apples; she had set up routines and traditions to stick to in order to create some semblance of normalcy.

It was one such tradition that she was fulfilling by diverting to the stone circle at the greatest height of the island. After every kill she took the innards and heart to the circle and left it there for whatever animal wanted it. This was the place where her blood stopped and her enchanted life began; it was only fitting that this would be the place where she'd leave the evidence of another life stopped there as well.

She dumped out the contents in an unceremonious fashion and did not pause for any special rites. The deed was done, no use in making a big flourish of it. She carried on down towards the castle content with her kill. It was when she was almost upon the drawbridge that she noticed him. Far below, in the breakers that crashed around the moat that separated her castle from the main part of the island, was a man. She leaned over the rock wall and peered more intently, trying to discern if he was alive or dead. When she saw his arm jut upwards to brace against a rock she jerked back as if stung.

She hurried into the castle and set aside the meat and her bow and quiver before rushing down the steps that lead to the dungeon and through that the door that led to the rocks by the bottom of the moat. Her sword was still strapped to her side, her knife also there; she did not know who this man was and as he was the first man she'd met aside from Merlin she did not know what to expect.

The door protested against her movements but she wrestled it open and stepped out onto the slippery landing. The man continued to fight against the surf only a few feet from her, unaware of her presence yet. Bracing herself against the unknown, she cautiously made her way across the rocks until she was within arm's length of the man. Facing away from her, he still did not know her to be there and she could not alert him to it without touching him. He looked as if he'd been struggling against the tide for some time.

She'd come to understand the ways of the river and her location near where it emptied out into the sea. She was surprised that he hadn't been sucked back into the river and then out to sea. If she did not extend help of some kind it looked as if fatigue would win out and he'd be lost. When she noticed another relatively large wave moving towards him she made her decision. With no warning to him she surged forward and laid hold of his arm. His head turned and his eyes found hers. Fear and intrigue battled in his hazel gaze. She ignored his feeble attempt to jerk out of her grasp and hauled him towards her just as the wave crested over the rock where he'd once been.

As his body fell atop hers she felt the wave reach them. She quickly lodged her feet into the rocks beneath her and wrapped her arms around his body. The water was icy and stole her breath but she kept her hold. His head was cradled between her head and shoulders, his arms pinned to his sides within her embrace. He seemed to comprehend what she was doing and so did not fight her anymore, if he'd even had the strength to do so.

When the wave receded, she opened her eyes and found the man staring at her. His eyes were glazed from fatigue and most likely a growing fever. She wasted no time in staring into the windows to his soul and instead pushed him off just enough to stand. He attempted to stand as well but could only manage to fall back upon the rocks, groaning from the pain his movements caused.

She rolled her eyes at him briefly before she bent and pulled one of his arms around her shoulders. He seemed unsure of her efforts but again didn't fight her when she hauled him to his feet and together they hobbled away from the slippery danger and up to the landing. She let him rest against the wall while she opened the door again. It was slow going up the many stairs. He was panting and shivering from a cold sweat by the time they made it to the kitchen.

She let him drop into the chair she kept by the ever present fire and moved off to find something for him to drink. His head lolled to the side and his eyes started to close as he huddled in on himself, obviously chilled to the bone. She could not help but note that her mundane life of weaving tales just got a lot more interesting with his presence. She was shaking her head to herself when she returned and pressed a goblet of cider into his hands.

After he drank the glass and handed it back he seemed to be revived enough to speak. She grimaced when he first asked, "Who are you?" He studied her carefully, obviously taking note of her breeches, plaited hair and weapons, his gaze sharp though still weak. "Where am I?"

She sighed, the only audible noise she was able to make was breathing after all. She pointed to her throat and shook her head, hoping that he'd understand. It took a moment but when realization dawned on his face she gave a slight smile. Though weak he apparently was not an idiot.

"You cannot speak?" She shook her head and he frowned. "Who else is here?" She held up her fingers in a circle and his eyes widened. "You're alone?" She nodded; again glad that he could understand thus far without her having to dance a jig of gestures for comprehension. "How do you manage?" She dropped her head and pressed her fingers into her temples, already getting a headache at the thought of how to describe that process to him. "Never mind, I'm sorry that would be difficult to answer." She gave him a slight smile before moving to the side to retrieve a few more logs for the fire. "You cannot speak and you are here alone, but that still does not answer my question of where am I?" He stayed seated as he watched her stoke the fire before leaning against the stone mantel to face him again. "Do you have parchment? Can you write?"

She tipped her head to the side and frowned. She'd never tried writing before. In fact, she didn't even know if parchment and ink were on the island. When the man suddenly sneezed violently she put aside the thought of parchment and moved forward. She gestured for him to stand again. He did so after struggling against the blanket and she quickly moved his arm to rest over her shoulder. She gave him a slight smile before she began to basically carry him from the room.

He was not light and she too was heaving and sweating by the time she got him to the available sleeping chamber. There was trouble in setting him down on the bed and she ended up falling on him in the process. He only grunted in response before she hauled herself upright again. She held up her hand and indicated that he wait while she hurried from the room.

Back in the kitchen to piled some of the wood in her arms and carried it back to his chamber. When she returned to found him in the same position that she'd left him, hunched over on his side, half on the bed and half off. She left and returned again, this time with some coals to help start the new fire. It took longer than expected but once ignited the fire began to slow process of heating the room to a more comfortable level. She noted, as she stood to face him again, that outside a storm had begun to pound away at the castle walls.

She approached the bed and nudged his foot. He raised bleary eyes and watched as she mimicked the action of undressing.

"You want me to disrobe? Why?" She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him as if he were stupid. "What will I wear in the mean time?" She shrugged before pointing to the bare skin on her wrist. Before he could protest she mimicked shivering and faked a sneeze and cough. "Yes, yes I understand. If you please?" He indicated the door with his gaze and she sighed before leaving.

She stood outside for only a few moments before she heard a curse then a thud. Rushing back in she found him shirtless with his breeches around his ankles, having fallen over after getting thrown off balance. A feeling almost foreign to her as it had been so long bubbled up from her belly and she found, to her great pleasure and his embarrassment, herself clutching her stomach and laughing. It was more of a breathy laugh than usual but still it was a laugh and it felt good.

"Please." He rolled over, doing his best to remain decent by holding his discarded shirt over his lap. "This is difficult enough as it is."

Wiping the tears away from her eyes she approached him. He tried to scoot away but she held up her hand for him to sit still. Doing her best to avert her gaze, more for his comfort than her own, she pulled his breeches off his ankles and held out her hand to help him up. He hesitated, obviously debating how decent he could remain by moving again, before he too sighed and accepted her help. She managed to get him settled under the blankets without seeing much more than his rear—she'd be honest and admit it was nicely shaped—and his chest—also quite nice. By the time all was said and done he was shaking from fatigue.

She made to move from the room in order to make some porridge when his hand catching hold of her wrist stopped her. Once she looked down at him in response he let go of her wrist and retreated to a proper distance.

"Thank you, for your kindness. I am sorry-" she shook her head before he could continue and he gave her a weak smile in return. "Perhaps we will find a way to communicate before too long. In the meantime I am Lancelot." He stopped talking when a fit of coughing suddenly seized him.

She frowned and patted his shoulder before quickly leaving. When she returned with the porridge some time later, having gotten distracted by taking care of the meat and cleaning up her weapons as well as changing into a dry dress, she found him asleep. Loathed to wake him, she stoked the fire again before pulling a chair closer to the bed. She did not trust his health on his own and so settled herself in for a long and very uncomfortable night.


	3. The Curse of the Tapestries

He dreamt of seeing Gwenhwyfar again, only this time Morgaine did not close the mists. He was able to go to her, stroke her honey-colored hair, taste her sweet lips, and hold her close. But just as he did these things, he saw a stag approach them atop the hill by the stone cirlce. It was large, larger than any he'd ever seen, and on its head was a crown. He felt drawn to the stag; as if by touching the stag he might be infused with an unknown power. The stag stopped by Morgaine's side and together they looked at Gwenhwyfar and himself with pity. The pleasure he'd gained from Gwenhwyfar began to curdle into a sense of remorse and he found himself wishing for the mists to envelope him but they would not.

Even as he extracted himself from her embrace, Gwenhwyfar pursued him. He tried to approach the regal stag and Morgaine but the mists had descended and he was cut off. He could make out his mother Vivane's face in the mist and a look of disappointment and pain marred her features. Fear suddenly seized him and he was struck to the spot. He watched as a sword emerged from the mists. He knew it would end his life but he could not move, even as it first began to pierce his skin and drive its way into his heart, he could not move. He could only throw his head back and scream from the pain.

He jerked awake, his breath coming in gasps and the side of his face stinging. In the faint light from the fire he found the woman standing over him, her hand drawn back as if about to strike. It took him a moment to discern that she had, in fact, already struck him and that was what had awoken him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to pull himself out of the dredges of fatigue and clear the mists from his mind. He still felt weak but not nearly as bad as the day before as his fever was gone.

He felt her hand touch his shoulder and he looked up to find her holding a glass. He nodded and allowed her to help him sit up enough to drink the honeyed water. He noticed that she was now wearing a gown and that she no longer carried a visible weapon. When he'd first seen her fully in the kitchen he had been alarmed. There had been blood smeared across her tunic and breeches and if he hadn't spotted the freshly cut meat on the great table behind her he would've feared for his life. She'd had the look of a wild woman about her, though her gaze held intelligence and care.

He pulled back from the glass and nodded, grateful when she helped him sit up some more until he was leaning against the cool wall behind him. He glanced from the woman to the fire. He noticed a large pile of ash where there had been none before. Had it only been a day? He looked back to the woman and watched as she sat back down in a chair by the bed, her hands resuming their work of embroidery.

"How long have I been asleep?" His throat hurt and his voice came out as more of a growl than he expected.

The woman held up both hands and his eyes widened when he saw her long fingers count out six.

"I've been asleep for six days?" She nodded. "How-?" He narrowed his eyes on the glass then looked back to find her glaring at him, obviously not pleased at where his thoughts had strayed. "I apologize for the accusation, I just don't understand how I could have slept for six days without the aid of a potion." She pointed to her head and shivered again and he nodded. "Yes I understand I had a fever but, oh never mind." He raked a hand through his hair, grimacing at how filthy he felt.

He looked over to find the woman holding out the cloth she'd been embroidering to him. He raised his eyebrows in question but took the cloth. On it he saw an island in a river with a castle on the island. Above the island were the words, 'Lady of Shalott.' When her hand reached forward and traced over the words he looked up to find her pointing at herself. "You are the Lady of Shalott?" She nodded, a look of satisfaction on her face. "But what is your name?" She frowned and for a moment she made no attempt to respond until she leaned forward and pointed. "Lady? You're name is Lady?" She shrugged then nodded. "That is an unusual name for an unusual lady." She snorted at his comment and he smiled. When he moved to sit up more he caught whiff of his stench and frowned. "May I trouble you lady for directions for a bath? I find myself quite unpleasant to live with."

She snorted again and nodded. She stood and turned around. When she was facing him again she held a long robe in her hands. It was obviously made for a woman but he had yet to catch sight of his clothing as another option. He raised his eyebrows at the robe but she merely shrugged, though he caught sight of an amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He sighed but took the robe and waited until she left before he pulled the blankets from his body and carefully stood. It felt odd to be moving so much after so long abed and his movements were awkward but it was better than still lying there.

He still could not comprehend how he'd managed to stay asleep for six days or how he even came to be here, wherever here was. Thinking back, he'd only just parted from Avalon and his mother, having made the decision to fight despite her reservations, when he was suddenly thrown into the river. The current, stronger than ever before, had swept him far from the reach of his companions in the boat and he'd found himself struggling to stay afloat, his sword, leather armor and cloak weighing him down. It'd only been after he'd unbuckled his sword belt and pried the leather and cloak from his body that he'd surfaced long enough to find himself being carried by an island. By sheer luck he'd been washed into a rocky ravine where he'd battled against the current to stay perched on the rock he'd first laid hold of.

He tied the robe tight and slowly moved towards the door. Perhaps his mother had caused it to happen, her displeasure over his disobedience manifesting itself in this accident. He frowned. His mother was conniving enough to do that if she thought his actions in battle would lead to harm for Avalon or the kingdom of Uther. She'd taken great care to maintain the old ways even in the face of the threat of Christianity. Through Uther, she'd found a champion for her beliefs and he knew she would not shy from allowing his death or those of her family in order to have Avalon and Camelot survive.

Lancelot opened the door and found Lady leaning against the wall in a most unladylike manner. He could not quite grasp what sort of character she had. It was obvious that she was capable and independent; she'd somehow carved a way of life on the island in this dank castle all alone. She also had a heart for caring or else he was sure she would've left him on the rocks to be washed away. He could not decide whether or not she was of noble birth, however, as her mannerisms did not reflect the refinement of most nobility and yet she still held herself with a confidence that did not match the peasants.

When she took note of her presence she immediately moved forward and made to pull his arm around her shoulders again. He resisted and she looked up at him in confusion.

"Please, Lady, allow me to walk a bit on my own. If my stench is enough to cause me to grimace I don't want to make you suffer as well."

She snorted and shook her head but allowed him to move about on his own. She maintained a close walk beside him though, and as they made their ways down the stairs, he got the distinct impression that her hands were ever at the ready to seize his shoulders and haul him back against her if he even hinted at losing his balance.

She led him to the kitchen where he waited by the fire as she left to retrieve a washbasin. There was already a cauldron full of water over the fire. As he waited he glanced around the kitchen. She kept it clean and well-organized, though he supposed it would be more difficult to make things dirty and unorganized with only one person to look after. When she came back, hauling the rather large washbasin as if it weighed nothing, he again had to ponder who exactly this woman was and how she'd come to be on this island.

He knew of no island called Shalott, nor did he know of any old island castles such as the one in which they were in. All around he felt a particular air of enchantment and he wondered if his mother had had a hand in both his accident as well as Lady's presence here. After she poured the steaming water she nodded to him and quickly left. He quickly disrobed and lowered himself into the water, grateful for its soothing warmth. He'd only meant to wash away his stench and soak for a while but his body betrayed him and soon he found his eyes drooping, the strength from before leaving his body.

A firm hand on his shoulder jerked him out of the shadowy land between wakefulness and sleep and he found Lady kneeling by the basin, a look of amused concern on her face.

"I must've fallen asleep." He moved to stand up but stopped when he quickly remembered his state of undress. He glanced up to find her holding a cloth out to him with her head averted. Even from this angle, though, he could see a smile on her face and he wondered just what it was about his efforts at maintaining his modesty while in her presence that amused her. He quickly dried himself and dressed, she had brought his clothes, now clean, and laid them on the table near the basin. Once finished he spoke, "I'm decent." She turned around, her amusement not hidden at all now. He smiled in return, "What is so amusing to you?" She shrugged, the smile not leaving, then gestured for him to sit.

After he sat, he noticed that while he'd been asleep she'd replaced the cauldron over the fire and had made porridge to simmer. He marveled at how deeply he'd managed to sleep during that time or how quickly she'd managed to move about. She dished out two bowls and sat across from him. They ate in silence, only broken when she stood and poured them some glasses of mead. After they finished and she'd cleared away the dishes and he'd helped her pour out the used water from the basin before returning it to its storage, she led him from the kitchen and down the corridors. He followed her in curious silence.

It was daylight outside and so there was no need for candle, though at times the corridors grew dark and dreary. It took him by surprise, then, when she pushed open a large wooden door and he found himself standing at the entrance to a brightly lit great hall. Large windows lined both sides of the hall and on the walls between each window hung large, colorful tapestries. He moved from her side and drew closer to one of the tapestries, the detailed workmanship too much to be ignored. It took him only a few moments of study to come to the shocking realization that on this tapestry pieces of his life had been woven.

He threw a startled glance over to Lady and found her standing stoically at his side, her hands clasped together in front of her. He opened his mouth to question but she moved forward and pointed to an old man standing beside a tall woman. Given the context of the scene around the pair he could only surmise that the man was Merlin and the woman his own mother.

"That's how you came to be here?" She nodded, her hands moving back to clasp in front of her. "You did all this?" She nodded and he looked back to the tapestry, his eyes landing on a scene that depicted the crowning of Uther. "They have given you the ability to see all of this?" He gestured to the tapestry in front of him and the others beside it and behind him. She nodded and he felt his stomach clench, out of fear or anger he did not yet know.

Here was a woman privy to every action and event of not only his life but the lives of all those in the kingdom, so it seemed thus far, and here she weaved out their tales on tapestries, to be displayed for any to see. Of course, he had to admit, no one could see these unless they made their way to the island, which, given the fact that Merlin and his mother were to blame for her presence, he was fairly certain no one could just happen upon the island without their aid.

"Why?" He turned to face her, finding displeasure in staring at the otherwise beautiful tapestry. She glanced at him for more clarification and he frowned, "Why must you weave these things?"

She paused a moment before she suddenly reached up and began to loosen the ties of her dress. He made no move to stop her, his curiosity stayed him. He only watched as she used one hand to hold the dress while with the other she drew it down just enough for him to see a large scar just beside where her heart would be. There could be no natural survival from such a wound and with startling clarity he understood that her only reason for living was to do the bidding of Merlin and his mother. She looked up at him to see if he understood and he nodded, his jaw clenched. He averted his eyes as she moved to lace up the dress once more.

They were more calculating than he'd ever thought, his mother and Merlin. But for what purpose did these tapestries serve? No one but Lady was here to see them, and why should she gaze on them when it was she who made them? He looked down the hall to the very end and noticed that on the wall behind the seat of honor was a large and very faded tapestry. He pointed towards it in question and she shook her head. She had not made it. He frowned and moved towards it. The closer he got the colder the room became. It was an unnatural cold, one that seeped into his bones and made him shiver anew.

Once he reached it he had to stand close to make out any details, the threads having long ago faded and begun to fray. He could only see snippets of details, some reflected those he'd already seen in Lady's tapestry, but most were different. They appeared darker, more sinister and destructive than even the pain she'd managed to capture in the others. He moved further down the tapestry until he came to a scene that made his blood run cold. It reminded him of his dream. There, before him, was a large stag with a crown on its head. Beside it stood a robed woman with long black hair and beside her was a large wolf. There were fatal wounds on both the wolf and stag and blood was on the ground beside them. Above this scene there stood a man and woman, locked in an embrace, but with mist descending upon them. To the side of the couple was a castle in ruins.

What did this mean? Nothing of this nature had happened yet, as far as he knew. Could it be the future? Why had he dreamt something vaguely resembling such a scene? He jerked when he felt a warm hand touch his shoulder. Lady looked at him with a mixture of pity and understanding, as if she knew why he felt such sudden terror.

"Do you know what this means?" She shook her head, though he noticed that for the first time she did not maintain eye contact. Perhaps she knew more than she was willing, or able, to explain just yet. He sighed and looked back to the ominous tapestry. "I dreamt something akin to this." He pointed and she nodded. "You brought me out of it." He looked over to her and found her smiling softly at him. He rolled his shoulders and shook his head. "Well, Lady, let us leave this place." She nodded and took his elbow, either out of societal norm or because she still feared for his weakness he could not tell.

She gently led him from the room and he felt relief when she closed the door behind them. If he never saw those tapestries again he would be satisfied. They were a curse. He looked over at Lady for a moment and noticed for the first time a sadness about her countenance. She was cursed, this he now understood. She was cursed to record the deeds of those she did not know, unable to avert any destruction, and would have to do so until her purpose, whatever that may be, was fulfilled.

Pity for her plight filling his heart, he placed his other hand upon hers. She looked at him for clarity and he merely smiled. She maintained eye contact for a moment and he noticed for the first time how her eyes resembled that of a doe before she smiled and nodded and continued to lead him around the castle, showing him the life she led in such isolation.


	4. The Building of a Raft

It did not take long to show him around the castle to a degree that he could come and go as he pleased. More than once he'd been surprised at her ingenious ways of coping with life alone. He'd even asked her to teach him a few tricks, which she'd laughingly done so. His first few days on the island were spent recuperating and merely exploring the castle, often times keeping close at her side since he found the isolation to be more disturbing than comforting. At first he seemed content to regain his strength while at the same time exploring her castle and island. But as the days passed and his strength returned, she noted a restlessness grow inside Lancelot. He was eager to return to the fight, his life from before, of this she was certain.

He was a man of action after all. He was not a man for seclusion and contemplation. His body had been made for the fight, his mind for strategy and purpose. She knew that it was the very things that would take him away that she personally held the most affinity for. Had she the choice she too would be one for action and the fight but her curse held her back. Though it had saved her life it also killed her in a way. Forever to dwell in one place, doing one thing, that was a sentence of death to most, and especially herself. She too yearned to leave the isle of secrets but she knew that if she attempted to leave with him, though he had not voiced an invitation, she would die as she had been doing before. Perhaps, one day, death would be worth while. But as of yet she was happy to still be living.

Not wanting to hold him back from his fate, whatever that may be, and though she was loathed to lose the comforting company he now offered, she gave him an ax and took him to the forest. She helped him choose the best trees to fell and left him with this new project. The only way off the island would be to make a way. There were no boats, no bridges, and the river was entirely too swift and wide to swim, as he now knew personally. He would have to construct a raft of sorts, something neither of them had done before. It would take time, and trial and error, but at least now he had a purpose again.

With this goal in mind, Lancelot went through the following days with cheer. His cheer brought a smile to her melancholic face and they soon fell into a routine of sorts. They would break the morning fast together, where he would often regale her with curious and perhaps exaggerated tales of his childhood and she would return in kind, though at a much more guarded rate. She'd fallen into the habit of carrying scraps of cloth and thread around with her so that she could quickly sew out responses when needed. It was not ideal but it helped. Most of the time, however, it seemed that he could mostly understand what she wanted to convey without having to make much more than gestures. At least, he was this way after a fortnight together. She found him to be a keen observer, almost as good as she, and so he quickly learned to discern her moods and wants.

After the meal, when he left to continue working on his raft, she would retire to her tower to weave. Come luncheon hour sometimes she would retrieve him from his work and sometimes he would wander up to the tower to fetch her. She knew he was reluctant to come near her weaves, fearing what he would see. She could not blame him, especially not after what he'd seen on that first day.

She knew in her heart that it was he who had been the man holding that woman, the man who helped bring about the destruction of the kingdom. Of course, that tapestry had been old and, as she understood from its state of disrepair and fading, was only one possible future of many. Perhaps Merlin had caused Lancelot to come here in order to see his future so that he could try to alter it, if one could alter one's fate that is. From the way he avoided the great hall as well as keeping his eyes averted whenever he did venture into her tower, she felt that he knew this fact in his heart as well.

At noon, they would eat their luncheon outside, weather permitting. He'd taken a fancy to having her show him around the island and together they would explore the island for the first few hours after luncheon. He found her aversion to looking at the south, and towards the main castle of the kingdom as he explained to her later, to be quite curious but never did he try to get her to break that promise that she'd made. He merely would help her move backwards whenever they did venture southward on the island. He offered to describe to her what she could not see but she'd declined, feeling this to be a cheat of sorts.

In the time that he'd been there she'd shown him most of the island and had only kept the cavern springs a secret. She'd only found them a few days previous to his arrival and so had yet to fully explore them. She knew that they were probably her favorite place on the island, with the natural spotlights from the breaks in the earth above, the bright stone walls and floors, the flickering light bouncing off the fools gold trapped in the rocks, and the sound of gentle gurgling from the spring itself. Perhaps she would show this to him later.

After exploring they would return to their respective corners of the castle and work until supper. After finding out that he knew how to play the lute, a fact she'd laughed at and he'd not tried to defend himself for, she'd pulled one down from an unused bedroom and often he would play after supper. Over time he'd taught her a few of the court dances, which were hard for her to execute on her own once he would sit down to play again, but they had some good laughs about it. She apparently was a quick learner but not the best at performances. He, on the other hand, took to performing like a fish to water. He was indeed born to shine.

She relished those moments of touch that passed between them. Whenever he would take her elbow to help her up stairs or through brambles, though she in actuality needed no help. Whenever he held her hands in his own during the dances he taught her. She knew there would soon come a time when there would be no option for touches. While she would not press him for more she did enjoy what she could get.

The level of domesticity of their routine was a bit alarming for her though. With each passing day, and the deepening of the intimate friendship they now shared, she felt a bittersweet aura creep over the castle and into her bones. She'd grown so accustomed to knowing that he would be at a certain place at a certain time, that she could expect him to do or say a certain thing, and that no matter what, they would always spend some time together during the day, it was all leading up to a painful separation.

He would not stay, that was not even an option. They did not speak of his departure, they did not need to. It was a simple fact. He did not belong here. She didn't either, at least not technically, but at least he had the ability to leave. She had yet to tell him of her inability to leave but she doubted that it would be an issue. Most likely he had someone waiting for him back on the main shore. If not now then he soon would. A man such as Lancelot would not long be alone.

A knock on the door brought her out of her thoughts. She looked up from her weave to find Lancelot poking his head through, a smile tugging at his lips.

"I see you have been the one to forget the time today." His skin was darker after so many hours out in the sun. She felt it made him look ruddier and healthier than the pale skin of before. He stepped in and moved closer. She raised her brows at his movements; he had yet to come so fully into her tower room. He was looking at her weave, surprise on his face. She glanced back at the weave, only seeing the figures of a stag headed man and masked woman lying together in a cave. "I know this scene. That is part of the annual Beltane Rites. I was to participate in it." He looked only a little longer before he sighed and moved back towards the door. "Are you hungry? Your traps have gifted us with a few fish this afternoon."

She gave a nod and stood. Fish would be a welcome change from the deer jerky they'd been working on since her kill the day he'd arrived. She followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen where she saw he'd already laid out their luncheon fare. She smiled her thanks and took her seat. They ate in silence for some time and it wasn't until she began to rise from the table that he called her to pause.

"My raft is ready." He was looking at her with a mixture of pleasure and hesitation. She knew he was hesitating because of the nature of his departure. It would be difficult for him to return since her island was not readily seen through mists from the shore and the currents were never in any rafts favors. "I will depart tomorrow morn."

Despite the pang his words caused her she nodded, a patient smile on her lips. She'd known this day would come and would not dwell on it. She stood and took their dishes from the table to clean. She heard him follow and felt him press closer to her side at the wash basin than was necessary. He dried the dishes as she washed them. She smiled to herself. He probably participated in much more domestic activities here than he'd ever done before.

"Lady," he reached out one of his hands and rested it on hers, stilling her movements, "come with me." She looked over at him, her brows raised in question. "You could still weave and sell your wares for profit. You could become quite an accomplished merchant actually. Many nobles are in need of skilled weavers."

She turned one of her hands up and clasped his. She gazed at their hands and then up at his near pleading expression. She gave him a sad smile and shook her head. She used her other hand to reach up and laid it over her heart. She patted against her chest then stopped and closed her eyes. She let a beat pass before she opened her eyes again, hoping he understood.

"You will die if you leave?" He questioned, her hesitant nod answering. He sighed, squeezing her hand briefly before going back to drying the last of the utensils. "Then you must remain here." It was a statement but she nodded. "I will leave you tomorrow morn," she hesitated in her movements but nodded again after a moment, "and it will be unlikely that I will see you again, is that not so?" He looked up as he set aside the last utensil, angling his body to face hers.

She nodded, also turning to face him, her lips still turned up in a small smile. He studied her face for a moment before he reached out and traced her cheek with the back of his hand, one of the most deliberately affectionate touches he'd ever given her. The pang in her heart returned at the touch and she blinked back the evidence of pain. She allowed another moment to pass before she stood up to her full height and reached forward, taking hold of his hand in her own. Her movements surprised him but he made no move to retract his hand. She tugged on his hand and smiled when he allowed her to lead him from the room. If this was the last day she was to spend with him then she would leave the weaving for tomorrow. Today she would show him the caverns; she wanted to share that place with him at least.

She glanced back at him and found him giving her a smile in return. He moved faster until he was beside her instead of behind her, their hands still clasped. Tomorrow he would move beyond her and she would once again be left alone to her weaves. She would only glimpse him in her weaves from tomorrow onward. That fact had her quickening her pace, eager to wash away the pang of sorrow with the spring water.


	5. Becoming One

He followed her in silence. She'd quickened her pace, though her grip on his hand remained steady. He squeezed it lightly and earned a soft smile in response but little else. He knew she was preoccupied in thought over his imminent departure. He too couldn't quite wipe away the melancholy that thought brought him. Though the day was beautiful, it held a tinge of darkness for him. He did not realize until now, walking so close to Lady in the copse of trees for perhaps the last time, that leaving would bring him such remorse.

When he'd finished the raft and tested it in the small stream and found it sound, he certainly didn't feel the amount of pleasure and satisfaction that he'd thought he'd feel. At first he'd given a shout of joy and jumped up and down like the lad he'd once been; but upon standing firm again, and returning the raft to the shores, he was seized with a panic. He would leave and, even without asking, he felt in his heart that Lady would stay. She had a duty here and she was a diligent worker, as faithful as an sworn knight. He'd still asked her, even giving her the option of using her otherworldly craft, but had not been surprised to find that she could not leave. Perhaps if she could, and if he'd given her better assurances than just money and vocation-he was not a complete imbecile to think that's what she'd truly desire from him-she might've. But as it stood, he would leave her in the morn.

He treasured the times that he'd been able to steal her away from her loom, have her explore the island with him, share moments of simple joy with her. She was mischievous like Morgaine had once been and more than once he'd found himself the recipient of an elaborate jest. He repaid in kind and more than once had earned a stinging smack on the arm in retaliation, but it was always worth it. In the times they spent in silence by the fire, he'd grown used to her quiet and reassuring presence, a spark of wit inside her that could shine out of silence and leave him gasping for breath from laughter. She'd become a center piece of his day. He would wake knowing that she'd be in the kitchen to greet him with a smile, and most likely some smidgen of food smeared on her face or clothing. He enjoyed the "conversations" they shared, the debates they had. He especially enjoyed the trading of talents they'd begun, his dancing and lute playing for her card games and knife throwing-a talent that had taken him quite by surprise. There were many things about his Lady that took him by surprise but then again he'd grown used to being surprised by her. She was a light in the darkness that had surrounded his life previous to coming ashore. He was an orbiting sphere to her light, he knew this now quite clearly, and when he left, his life would be bereft of her light.

It would be unlikely that he could return to her island. It had been mere chance, or his mother's doing, that had brought him here anyway. Now he was willingly leaving behind one of the only women, beyond Morgaine, and the brief glimpse of Gwenhwyfar, to have touched his heart. Morgaine was a friend, albeit an attractive friend-he could not deny her appeal-but a friend nonetheless, one that kept him grounded in his familial traditions and sought to understand the world through his eyes. Her adoration of his prowess and blind love for him made him feel both big and small at the same time. Gwenhwyfar held promise of something more, he knew this just from the brief time they'd seen each other. There was an air of forbidden mystery about her and deep down he wanted to pursue that mystery, despite the danger. Lady was different. She knew him only as a man, not a dream, and not a childhood playmate. She knew of his deeds, though he had not told her; she could see more clearly than any other person he knew. Yet, despite her all seeing eye, she found in him a pleasurable companion.

He was not blind. He knew she found him attractive. He saw her shiver whenever they danced and his fingers brushed bare skin. He noticed how she leaned closer to him while they did menial chores about the castle together. He was not ignorant of her efforts to keep him engaged in conversation or her subtle ways of becoming more intimately connected with him. He was not blind, nor was he allowing her to do this on her own. He encouraged it, he found pleasure in it, and he felt enlivened by it. Her interest in him felt like a mixture of being washed in a cool river and doused in hot wine. She was wise and she was fair, she was beyond him in many ways, and yet she still felt drawn to him. That was most likely the highest compliment he would ever receive.

"Here?" She'd stopped and pointed down into what looked like a sinkhole.

They'd walked closer to the cliffs on the far side of the island, tracing down the edges of a small stream. The woods were sparse here, the land mostly populated by tall grass and flowering bushes. He looked back up at her nod and shrugged. She would know better than he what delights a sinkhole could provide. He released her hand and carefully began to pick his way down among the craggy rocks that lined the relatively small hole in the ground. As he descended he heard the sound of trickling water. When he paused and looked down, tracing the beam of sunlight to the bottom, he found himself staring into his own distant reflection. Movement above him reminded him that Lady would descend quickly after and so he hurried down until he could jump the remaining few feet to the pebbly bottom.

He looked to his left and his eyes strained to find the end of what looked to be a narrow though long cavern filled with intricately connected pools of fresh, flowing water. The pools were varying shades of blue and turquoise green and they cascaded past him to his right until they slithered out underneath a rock and out into what he assumed was the river. He bent down and dipped his hand in the blue water. It was tepid. A bit of steam caressed his face and he turned towards a turquoise pool. He touched the water and was surprised to find it quite warm, almost hot. He'd heard of pools such as this before but had never seen one. Lady had brought him to a cavern of springs, each a different temperature and color.

He heard her feet touch the pebbles behind him and he turned just in time to catch her as she wobbled forward slightly, her dress having gotten tangled in the last outcropping on the cavern wall. His hands braced against her waist and her hands pressed against his chest. He found their current position to be quite pleasurable, and in the glittering light he could see a blush touch her cheeks, but she broke it too quickly for him to remark on it. She turned and extracted her dress from the wall before turning and surveying the cavern as well. When she returned her gaze to him she was beaming.

"I take it that this is one of your favorite places on the island?" She'd started nodding before he could even finish his sentence, causing him to chuckle. "Well it is most beautiful." He turned his gaze back on her at the last of his sentence and he found her blushing again. She didn't often blush and so he took particular delight in rendering her so feminine. "Is there anything else in here that you care to show me? Hidden treasure? A cavern troll?" Though he attempted to keep his voice serious he knew that she could detect the glimmer of humor in his eyes.

She chuckled at him and shook her head. She suddenly placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face the left. When he tried to question and turn around again she merely turned him back to face the shadows of the cavern. He didn't know why she did this until he heard the sound of water splashing. He felt his gut tighten instinctively and knew without having to turn that she'd entered one of the pools. He moved slowly, afraid that if he moved too quickly this would all disappear into the recesses of a dream addled brain. When his eyes found hers again in the flickering sunlight he sucked in the breath he'd been holding. She'd discarded all her clothing except a thin white shift, that did little to keep her "decent." Her hair was unbound and floating about her in the bluish water as she hovered upright facing him, her gaze soft but constant. A small, mischievous smile brushed her lips and she inclined her head towards him.

He still had yet to breathe normally, or form coherent sentences with mind or lips, but he understood her without having to speak. His stomach continued to clench and roll as he began to unlace his shirt. Her eyes did not waiver and this did not ease the building tension in his gut. She watched him as he pulled off his boots, unlaced and pulled off his breeches, and discarded his shirt. It when he was clad only in his trews, the wavering beams of sunlight warming his bare skin, that her gaze flickered. It did not pull away but instead fell down then back up his body, her face flushing and her eyes darkening the longer she stared at him. He'd never been looked at in quite this manner. It robbed him of breath and made his insides burn with anticipation.

He moved towards her as if in a spell, his body entering the pool before he quite realized what he was doing. The water was tepid as it lapped at his skin, but it did nothing to quell the fire inside. The pool was deeper than he expected, his feet only barely grazing the sand-like bottom. He floated closer to her, their gaze still not parting from one another, but did not reach out for her. She'd started this, though he had no objections in the slightest, and he would let her set the pace of whatever "this" was. It took every ounce of control to not reach out and trace his fingers down the column of her ivory throat; not to follow the droplets of water on her face with his lips; not to wrap his arms around her and soak in the warmth of her body. He was a knight with great resolve, he could allow this mysterious lady to set the pace of their joining.

He knew they would become one here. She'd walked with purpose and had only sought to show him this place on the day he'd announced his departure. She would not have peeled away the layers of clothing and emotion like this if she did not expect them to fully join. His heart ached from the level of meaning this act would hold, for both of them. It would be the purest form of making love that he had ever encountered, and would perhaps ever participate in. Any woman that came into his life after this one would pale, he knew that without having to touch her. Having her passionate gaze on him as they circled each other in the water, their hands only occasionally brushing, made him certain of all this.

He didn't know how long it took for her to find the resolve to touch him. Time had either stopped or raced on without them. She'd circled behind him and when her fingers lightly traced against the taunt skin of his stomach he'd nearly submerged from the shiver of pleasure it shot through him. He kept his arms out to his sides but his feet finally found purchase on the floor beneath him. He felt her press closer, first her legs brushing the backs of his, then her chest on his back, as her arms wrapped more securely around him, her hands flattening against his chest. He reached down with one of his hands and laid it over hers where it rested over his heart. He knew she would feel his heart racing and from where her chest was so closely pressed against his back he could feel hers beating at a matching pace.

There was no rush in their movements. They'd descended into a haze of passion, unhurried and sweet. Every movement was drawn out, every touch memorized. Until his dying day he would remember how she slid in front of him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her legs equally wrapping around his waist. He would remember her lips against the skin of his neck, her body flush against his.

The memory of their first kiss, seared into the recesses of his brain from the intensity it held, robbing them both of thought and breath. His hands descended on her, pulling her tighter against him as their kiss deepened. He could not hold her close enough it seemed. He could not get enough of the taste her of, the feel of her in his arms. He could die a happy man in the morning after this.

Their kisses soon were not enough and touches became bolder, holding more purpose. The last of their clothing was shed and soon it was skin on skin, the water caressing around them. The memories of the following would blend together, forming a mass of pure sensation and emotion. How they'd finally joined, their moans mixing in with the sound of the trickling water. Their breaths escaping them at the same time as the intensity built. Their cries of satisfaction and completion echoing off the cavern walls after the climax of their journey.

He would relive it time and again, treasure it more closely than anything else. He was filled with her light and she reflected it back to him. They did not depart from the cavern for some time. They tested out a number of the pools, taking turns washing one another, exploring each others bodies, memorizing all the contours and textures. It was dark by the time they returned to the castle, no longer two but one. They ate a hearty dinner then adjourned to bed. They did not part. They enjoyed their last night to its fullest, exploring new ways of robbing each other of breath, of eliciting moans of pleasure or cries of delight. When they did finally sleep, it was tangled up in each others arms, unknowing of where one body stopped and the other began.


	6. The Wolf Arrives

Time, life, and love, they are all like rivers: flowing, changing, rushing, slowing, curving, dropping, and ceasing. Lancelot had not stayed, no matter the bond they'd forged in the cavern. The call of glory was too great to be ignored. He was desperate to change the fate he'd glimpsed in the tapestries, though she feared that very desire to change things would only cause them to happen more quickly. Usually when one set out to be the opposite of what was expected they ended up becoming the very thing they did not want to become, and this was what she feared Lancelot would do.

Though the parting had been painful, both of them lingering in touch and looks, he was gone now and had been for the length of time it'd taken her to make two more tapestries. More births, more deaths, more lives lived in the shadow of her tapestries. He'd appeared in both tapestries, making his mark on the kingdom surrounding her isle. He was well connected to those in power and had not waited long before striking out on the journey to seize renown.

He'd gained a wife, similar in looks and stature to the woman he'd embraced in the tapestry that once was but perhaps would not be. She'd cried as she weaved that moment, her tears dampening the threads and making it difficult to finish. She understood that he could not always think of her, if he did at all now, she understood the reasons why he married. What man of renown was truly known to be great unless he had an heir to his greatness? The sting of the passive rejection still smarted on occasion though.

Darkness was now looming on the edges of her tapestries. Something had been spawned at the Beltane Rites, as Lancelot had called them, something that had been suckled on vengeance and petty vanity. Something that could've linked the tapestries into peace was now threatening to tear them apart. The dark tapestry at the end of her great hall was looking more and more like it would come to pass. Perhaps fate was inevitable.

She was de-scaling the fish she'd caught earlier when she heard the knock. At first she'd fancied it the wind but then, as the knocking continued in an insistent and constant manner, she realized that it could not be the wind. While she discarded the fish on the table, she kept the knife in her hand as she moved from the buttery out through the corridor towards the main door. She did not know who it would be, friend or foe, as she had never had visitors aside from Lancelot's accidental arrival. It certainly wouldn't be Merlin, he never knocked nor did he arrive by conventional means, and the Lady of the Lake had only ever visited her once with Merlin.

She took a deep breath and hid the knife in the folds of her gown before she pulled the latch from the door and swung it open. A figure fell in a heap upon the floor at her feet. She glanced past the figure to see if any others lurked in the dusk but none appeared from the shadows. The figure moaned and rolled over at her feet. It was a man, dark in features and apparel. She leaned down and laid a hand on his shoulder. He moved suddenly, his hand latching onto her wrist and tugging her down. With violent force, he rolled her over his body and rolled with her until his body hovered over her with a knife at her throat.

She blinked up at his fierce features, reading anger and wariness in his eyes and determination in the set of his jaw. He didn't know where he was, that much was certain, and he didn't know if she was to be trusted. She did not feel fear though and he must've sensed that when she poked her own knife more firmly against his side; in the fall, she'd retrieved her own knife and had maneuvered her hand up into its present position.

"Who are you?" He snarled, his grip on his knife not lessening though he did shift his weight slightly in his efforts to retreat from her knife point. She shook her head, opening her mouth and making a croaking sound. He raised an eyebrow, "You are mute?" At her nod he continued, "Are you alone?" Figuring it would be best not to lie to him while he had a knife at her throat she nodded again. "Who are you? Where am I?"

She coughed, her eyes darting from his dark eyes down to the knife gleaming at her throat. He sensed her silent request and eased up on his grip and lifted his body weight away from her just enough for her to roll out from under him and kneel on the cold floor beside him. He watched her movements as a predator would watch its prey and she marveled at how different her current visitor was from the last.

Why would Merlin allow this man to come to her isle? With Lancelot she had shown him what could be with the hopes that he would alter his own choices to alter what had been, was she to do the same with this snarling man? Where Lancelot had been like a golden lion and she the mouse removing the thorn from its paw, this man was like an eclipsed moon, mysterious and dangerous, just shy of erupting with destructive force.

She stood and waited until he stood as well. She moved slowly, so that he could clearly see, as she tucked her knife into the belt at her waist. He mirrored her actions and returned his dagger to its sheath. He was clad in leather armor with a dark cloak about his shoulders, his hair shaggy about his clean shaven face. He had fine features, though they contained much ferocity; she had the feeling that if he ever smiled that he would be considered handsome indeed.

She moved around him, back to the door, which she quickly shut and latched again. He kept his eyes on her, his fingers never straying far from his dagger or sword hilts. She wondered what sort of man he was if he felt the need to be so cautious, so wary, and towards a woman. After she finished with the door she gestured for him to follow her. She would take him to the Great Hall immediately. She would not tarry with this man as she had with Lancelot. Something told her that this man needed to see the reality of her existence before she even attempted to offer him respite.

His eyes darted from side to side, his head cocked as if listening for the sounds of footsteps other than their own. She supposed she couldn't blame him; it was not common for a woman to live in a castle alone. When they reached the doors to the Great Hall she noticed that his hand had strayed down to the hilt of his sword again and she smirked at his suspicion, though she did not hesitate in throwing open the doors. She casually walked in, accustomed to the sight of absolute desertion aside from the tapestries in the room. She heard him carefully follow her once he knew there were no others lurking in the corners of the room.

"What is this place?" He did not disguise the distrust and confusion in his voice and she quickly led him to the first tapestry, the one that blended her arrival with the beginnings of the story that he was most certainly caught up in.

It was only after their arrival in the Great Hall that she'd realized who this man was. He was the spawn of the Beltane Rites, he was the darkness lurking, he was the threat to the world that surrounded her enchanted isle. She didn't know if seeing just where he fit in the story would cause him to alter his future decisions or if it would renew his desire to bring about the change he wanted, by any means necessary. It was not her job to change fate; it was her job to record the fateful choices of the lives around her and perhaps show them how these decisions affected the world as a whole. Did she hope that the tapestry at the end of the hall would not prove truthful? Yes, she wished that with all her heart and that was why she so willingly showed the tapestries now.

She stood in the middle of the Hall as he continued to study each tapestry in turn, pausing here and there to take in greater detail. When he came to the tapestry depicting the Beltane Rites and the time immediately after, he'd stopped as if stuck to the stones. His already white face had drained of all color and she thought she saw him sway slightly. The moment passed quickly and he moved on to the tapestries after this, his face turning from white to red the closer he got to the latest tapestry she'd hung. When he finished he was fairly close to the old tapestry at the end of the hall. He glanced at her briefly before he walked up the steps to study it. It was the same as when he'd studied her tapestries, pausing here and there to take in greater detail, until he came to the end. He did sway this time, clearly moved by the scene of destruction and death at the end of the tapestry. When he faced her again his features were awash with a myriad of emotions: fear, awe, anger, and confusion. She could see in him both man and child, desperate to find his place in a world that would not accept the truth of his existence.

"What are you?" It wasn't even a question of _who_ anymore, not for him. After seeing the magic of her tapestries he knew quite well that she was not of this world.

She gestured for him to follow him again and, with one last glance over his shoulder at the darkness behind him, he followed. She noticed that his step was heavier now, his shoulders seeming to have slumped under a great weight. His eyes did not dart as quickly and he did not seem to listen as much as before, his wariness having melted into something turned inward. She could not tell what he was feeling at the moment but she was sure he was battling something internal.

She led him to her tower, her latest weave only partially done. He, unlike Lancelot, boldly walked in and even touched her loom, his fingers tracing over the strands of the delicate thread before he turned and explored each "corner" of the circular room. As he touched this and that in the room she retrieved the cloth she'd embroidered when Lancelot had been there. When he turned back to face her she handed him the cloth, her fingers tracing over the words.

"Lady of Shallot?" She nodded and pointed to the first word. "Lady? Your name is Lady?" She nodded and allowed him to study the cloth in silence. After a few moments he glanced up and around himself again before a slight shudder shook his shoulders and he hastily handed the cloth back. "You are an enchantress?" He did not quite sound accusatory but she got the feeling that he did not much trust those who delved into the magical realm. She shrugged and his eyes narrowed, "How else could you be privy to all these things?" He gestured into the air, obviously referring to the events of the world around her. She shrugged again and he sighed. They stood in silence for a few moments longer before he ran a hand through his hair, "What do you want from me?" She raised an eyebrow and he dropped his hand, "What must I do to leave here?" She shrugged again and he glared at her, "Surely you know why I'm here and what I must do to leave."

She took a deep breath before slowly letting it out. Her stomach growled and she suddenly remembered her fish in the buttery. She gestured for him to follow but she didn't wait to see if he would before she turned and hurried down the steps. Perhaps he would also feel better after a meal. She still wasn't sure how he'd ended up on her isle. Lancelot had arrived via the river while this man appeared to have walked, and that was not possible. Perhaps Merlin had directly transported him in much the same way he'd originally transported herself.

Upon arriving in the buttery, she immediately set about cleaning up the mess she'd made and finishing the task from earlier. He watched in silence from the door and she was content to leave him to his own devices as she continued to make a meal big enough for two. It wasn't until she had two mugs of ale and two plates of food on the table that he moved closer. She sat and offered him a slight smile, gesturing for him to sit. He did so but still made no move touch the food or drink.

She sighed and reached across the table, noting how he tensed slightly with her movements. She maintained eye contact as she took a sip from his mug and then used her knife to spear a portion of his fish and took a bite. She sat back and stared at him for a moment before she made a choking noise and fell over. She heard him leap to his feet and she smiled. She sat back up, laughing at his distress, before she waved for him to sit back down.

"You jest?" He sounded incredulous and she nodded, her smile not wavering, even in the face of his gloomy frown. After a moment, he tentatively sat back down and watched as she began eating. He waited a little longer, at least until she was half done with her meal, before he began to pick at the food.

They ate in silence, since she was obviously not the best at conversation given current circumstances. He seemed to be content with the silence, however, as most likely his thoughts were turned inward still, at least if she were to judge by his glazed expression. Once they were both finished with the food she removed their cutlery and dishes and refilled his mug and her own. She moved to sit closer to the fire and he did the same, sitting in the seat that Lancelot had once used. She felt her heart tug slightly, her inward eye seeing Lancelot smiling over at her with mischief, while with her outward eye she saw this man glaring moodily into the fire.

It was only after they finished their third round of drinks that he spoke again, his dark eyes moving from the fire to search out her own, "I am Mordred."


End file.
